North Star
by Tahllydarling
Summary: As his body raged with a fever, she worried that she might be watching him die... [ Inspired by a scene in the Bourne Legacy and tweaked for SHIELD's finest.]


Disclaimer: _They aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them._

**North Star**

Closing her eyes and resting her head against the window, the Black Widow sighed at the welcome coolness that soothed her skin. While her head pounded and the muscles in her neck grew tight enough that she worried that the tension might cause her spinal damage, she wished that she could seal the cold into her skin so that she might be able to think clearly.

Turning her head she watched the man on the bed, haunted by memories she does not know and pursued by more people than she can name, fight for his life in a way that cannot be mastered through training. As his body raged with a fever and tried to shrug off the infection that she had been trying to prevent since they arrived here, she worried that she might be watching him die. Moving to his side, she laid her hand gently against the clammy skin of his forehead, checking his temperature again. Too warm, his skin burned hotter even than it had earlier.

Fighting down the panic that threatened to take hold, Natasha Romanoff forced herself to think back to her medical training. A fever always got worse before it got better, that was the golden rule of fevers, all she had to do was reduce his temperature as best she could and keep her wits about her. As Barton shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, she stripped him of the shirt that he wore, fighting against the dead-weight of his frame, and examined the dressing that she had strapped over the bullet wound to his shoulder. She didn't like the fact that blood had already seeped through the bandage or that the edges of the wound were inflamed. His body was becoming a battleground as the surrounding tissue fought the infection that was setting in. With a frown she placed a damp cool cloth across his forehead before dipping a second into the bowl of water on the bedside table so that she could clean the blood away from his wound.

"S' nice," he mumbled, voice barely audible as she pressed the cool cloth to his skin. With gentle movements she bathed his sweat away, trying to ease him as best she could, laying a gentle hand on his chest to restrain him when he struggled against her efforts.

Her voice came out as a murmur, the tone undeniably tender as she soothed him as best she could. "I know," she soothed, "I know Baby, shh I know. Just sleep."

The coughing started in the early hours of the morning, deep racking coughs that shook his entire body and lit a trembling that brought Natasha to his side from her position in the chair by the window. In the half light of the room his skin shimmered, perspiration reflecting the lamplight as he turned restlessly and mumbled in his sleep. He muttered but she couldn't make out the words as he turned onto his front, his eyes moving restlessly beneath his lids as she stroked the slick skin of his back and shoulder and murmured words of comfort. Beneath her ministrations he calmed, a soft groan escaping his lips. His body wriggled closer to her own through the thin sheet that covered him.

Natasha made her decision and climbed onto the bed, pulling his fevered body into her lap where she could reach better to apply cool towels to his skin and smooth away the hair from his sweat dotted brow. His hand found her own, his grip surprisingly strong as another tremor coursed through him. "Shh, it's okay Clint," she whispered. "I'm here, not going anywhere. It's gonna be okay."

His breath was laboured as he pressed his face into her hip, every breath skating across her skin. He seemed to be soothed by her presence though so she hummed to him a little, sharing barely remembered nursery rhymes from her childhood with her mother in Russia, hoping to soothe the tension in his body. She was relieved when the tightness appeared to ease from his muscular frame. Eventually his breathing evened out and his grip loosened on her hand but he snuggled closer into her lap and eased into a deeper slumber.

Setting down the cloth that she had used to cool his brow, Natasha pulled her favourite Beretta across the bedside table so that it was within easy reach. If holding him could give him comfort she would do so willingly but she also had to be prepared for anything that might burst through the door. No matter the cost she would not leave him vulnerable to attack when he was so weakened by illness. Whatever the night would bring, she was ready.

When daylight woke her, she found him curled around her, one arm splayed across her hip, his breathing relaxed and even. The gun was still at her side, muzzle pointed toward the still closed door. She watched him for a few moments, smoothing the hair away from his forehead and assessing his temperature as she enjoyed the quiet. For the first time since they had arrived there was no yelling in the alleyway below the window; she still didn't trust the silence but it made a pleasant change and it made the moment more peaceful. She took a moment to commit the relaxed lines of his face to memory, until his eyes flickered open, the roiling grey of storm clouds against the muted light of early morning. The gaze that met hers was confused, disoriented and painfully child like, like a small boy afraid of the dark and the monsters under the bed. Without thinking, Natasha reached for him and he responded by squeezing her hand with a desperation that surprised her. Despite his bone crushing grip, she petted him until he relaxed slightly.

"Tasha?" he wheezed, turning his gaze toward her face.

Bringing the water bottle and pain meds at her elbow around to his face, she brought them round to his lips and encouraged him to swallow and take a few sips. "Right here," she replied."Drink some of this, you'll need the fluids."

He obeyed her instruction, biology taking over as his thirst took hold. When she removed the bottle from his reach, his gaze pleaded with her, unfocused as it was. "You need to get out of here before they find you. You've done more than enough for me. Go before they find me."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, resting her palm against the side of his face. She ignored the logic in his words. It was true that the longer they remained here the more likely it became that their enemies would find them and exact vengeance for the mission they had fulfilled, but she wouldn't, couldn't leave him behind."I'm not going anywhere."

He had no idea how long he drifted in and out of consciousness but throughout the entire time he was aware that Romanoff was at his side. Natasha with her steady gaze and her gentle touch had became North Star to his compass in the darkness of his delirium.

When he woke up he estimated the time to be early morning judging by the muted light coming through the windows of the apartment. For the first time in however long, his vision was clear and as the room swam into focus the first thing he saw was the woman who had most probably saved his life. Natasha's body was curled up against the headboard of the bed that they currently shared, the fingers of her left hand twined with his own where they rested atop her thigh.

Realising that he was snuggled into her, his face pressed against the soft skin of her stomach, he lifted his head and took a moment to study her. In the early light he took in the features of the woman who had nursed him through the worst of his sickness, really taking in the beauty that made it so easy for her to lure her targets for the first time and admiring the strength that he had always respected in her. She astounded him. He wasn't sure which of his memories were real, when he had been awake or when he had been sleeping, whether any of the last few days were real or something his fever addled mind had concocted, but he knew that she had got him through it all.

She woke the instant he tried to slip from the bed, her hand tightening around the gun that was conveniently placed on the night-stand as if to blow a hole in whatever threatened his safety. "Just me," he said, surprised by how much gravel was in his voice after so long without use.

Natasha blinked at him, green eyes assessing him for a long second before moving her hand out of his to trace his features. After a long moment, her fingers dropped away from where they were tangled in his hair. "Hey," she said softly, "how are you feeling?"

Considering his words carefully, Barton stretched and winced at the sudden reminder that he had taken a round to the shoulder during the mission. He didn't feel anywhere near as bad as he expected but he was so exhausted that he wasn't even sure he would make it across the apartment to the bathroom without her help. "Better than I was when we arrived here," he replied carefully, not liking to admit to a weakness that could potentially be used against him, even though he knew that she would never do such a thing. She knew he wasn't being entirely honest with her but she let him get away with it; she was good like that, always had been.

"You had me worried for a minute," she admitted. "We'll rest the day so you can build up your strength and see how you are tomorrow before we think about moving on. I'll see what I can do about breakfast."

Silently pleased that he might not have to admit to the fact that he was beyond tired, aching and still not entirely sure where they were, he stretched out atop the mattress and watched her as she headed toward the tiny kitchen area on the opposite side of the room. The wariness in her eyes was easy for him to read, she was worried that he was shutting her out. Smiling, he called out the one thing that he knew would convince her that he was on the mend. "Hey Nat, I'd feel much better if you made me pancakes and maybe some coffee too!"

He heard her irritated Russian grumbling from across the room and barely avoided the dish towel that flew towards him. Natasha Romanoff, super spy, master assassin and all-round over achiever, never had mastered the art of making pancakes.


End file.
